Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
by joannaharvelle
Summary: Set in Season 8, as though Castiel is not being controlled by Naomi and has escaped Purgatory in some other way.


Dean hadn't thought about Christmas in years. It didn't matter so much if you weren't sure it would be your last, right? Of course, with his lifestyle, any Christmas could be his last. But after everything they'd been though lately, he couldn't bring himself to do anything.

Especially with Sam being sick from the trials.

So, Christmas Eve found Dean sitting in the bunker while Sam slept. Glass of whiskey in hand, he stared at the wall and tried to remember the Christmas before his mom died. The flutter of wings jolted him out of what blurry memories were barely resurfacing.

"Dean."

Dean rubbed his forehead. "C'mon, Cas, I'm not in the mood."

Castiel frowned. "In the mood for what?"

"Whatever it is you're here for. It's Christmas Eve, can't I get a break?"

Castiel glanced around the room. There were no holiday decorations to be seen, and the bunker seemed less like a home than ever.

"You don't seem to be celebrating."

Dean waved his glass of whiskey in Castiel's general direction, spilling a few drops. "I've decided to keep it low-key this year," he joked.

"Where is Sam?"

"He's not feeling so awesome right now," Dean explained. "I told him to get some rest."

"Ah." Castiel mumbled.

"So what do you need?"

Castiel pondered the question for a moment before answering, "Never mind, Dean. It is not a matter of urgency."

"Well, hang out for a bit, then," Dean suggested, patting the chair next to him. Castiel sat down on the edge of an armchair, back too straight, looking uncomfortable.

"I am not as familiar with Christmas traditions as one might expect an angel to be," he admitted.

"That's okay. Sam and I have never exactly had a _traditional _Christmas anyway."

Dean poured himself more whiskey, then settled further into his chair. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that should be okay, but isn't because you can't help but filling it with the thoughts that haunt your nightmares.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Don't feel guilty about Sam."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean said, trying to brush it off. As always.

"It's not your fault he is doing the trials instead of you," Castiel continues. "That was his choice, not yours."

"Well, then I guess I... I should have... I should have convinced him not to," Dean struggled, feeling the weight of the alcohol on his mind.

Castiel shook his head. "It is not your cross to bear."

"Thanks, I feel all better now," Dean scoffed. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, Castiel was gone.

Dean decided to go for a walk, hoping the cold air might clear his mind, but knowing that it wouldn't do much.

He ended up sitting down on a tree stump, because everything was starting to spin a little. He'd had more to drink than he planned. He looked up. Pine trees and stars blurred above his head. He wondered if after death, he could avoid any kind of afterlife all together. He'd never want to be a ghost, he'd already been to Hell, and Heaven was a mess.

Really, here on earth was probably as good as it got. Which was depressing as hell, especially thinking he'd be alone in a few years, probably, Sam gone along with everyone else. And after all, it wasn't like his life had every been the sort one might call "God's greatest gift." It was more like a curse.

Again, there was that soft, barely noticeable sound like wind through cloths on line.

"Cas, you should be glad you aren't human."

"Why, specifically?" The voice came from right behind Dean.

"It's a pain in the ass, that's why."

Dean propped his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands.

"I believe there is more to being human than just pain," Castiel replied, quietly. "You also have the opportunity to experience things that... aren't so difficult to look back on. Like love."

Dean snorted, trying to think of a good comeback. "I'm not really the sentimental type."

Castiel walked around to stand in front of Dean. Something hung from his fingers. He held it out to Dean. Dean lifted it up to the sky to see it better. It was the amulet he'd left in a trash can, years ago.

Screw what he'd just said. Hell if he wasn't happy to see it again.

"Thanks, Cas," he murmured, looking up to face the just perceptible form of the angel he called his friend.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Merry Christmas," he replied, standing up. Hesitantly, Dean wrapped his arms around Cas, letting himself feel warm again.


End file.
